


Dreamcatcher

by glyphsbowtie



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death In Dream, Dream Sex, Fluff and Angst, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Peter is not Spider-Man, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: Peter Parker has a strange gift, one which sends him hurtling into people's nightmares and helping them stop. One night, he meets Wade Wilson in a nightmare- and he keeps meeting him, leading Peter to wonder if he can ever help Deadpool get over his bad dreams... and if he even wants to.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueerIsHere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerIsHere/gifts).



> Based on a prompt by QueerIsHere: 'Au where Peter has had the power to save people from their nightmares since he was young. Over the years, he’s helped countless people get over their fears. One night, he comes across Wade Wilson and keeps coming across Wade until he realizes that no matter how many times he’s talked him through his nightmares and fought them, they keep coming back.'
> 
> It isn't proof-read, so any mistakes are mine.

It started when Peter was nine years old. He’d always had trouble sleeping, vaguely aware of horrors and fears every time he closed his eyes, but these didn’t manifest into something tangible until one late November evening in his ninth year. It was raining heavily, thudding powerfully against the panes of glass, and occasional flashes of silver lightning illuminated Peter’s bedroom. Thunder rumbled threateningly.

  


Peter lay in bed, eyes wide open, aching with tiredness. Even as a child, he knew he needed to sleep, but a feeling of horror whenever he tried to do so was enough to dissuade him from trying to hard. Tonight, his eyelids were as heavy as lead, and they blinked slowly closed. Sleep washed over him like a wave, dragging him below the surface; for a few long moments, it was blissfully, serenely quiet.

  


And then he started to drown in it.

  


A monster, the first real monster he’d even dreamt about, swam towards him. It was black, dripping oil, huge fangs snapping at his tiny body. He tried to scream, but drawing in breath just caused him to swallow water, tasting the oily substance of the monster’s skin, and he closed his eyes as the jaws closed around him…

  


He woke up. Sitting upright, he was aware of the sheen of sweat on his skin. Quietly panting, sobbing a little, he tried to remind himself that he was safe.

  


But he didn’t feel safe.

  


The tug of the monster was still tangible, and he could feel it pulling him from his bed, his toes sinking into thick carpet. He padded his way out of his bedroom, following some unseen but powerful rope, going into Uncle Ben and Aunt May’s room.

  


They were both asleep, their faces illuminated frequently by the flashing lightning outside. Uncle Ben was smiling, snoring in a contented fashion. Aunt May was… not.

  


Following instincts he wasn’t aware he had, Peter approached her, looking at her sleepy frown and the creases between her eyes, eyes which flickered with some unseen, horrible dream. As his fingers reached out for her temple, he knew what he was going to see, and he knew he would never be able to turn back once he started walking this path.

  


As his fingers brushed her skin, he was no longer in the bedroom, standing by his sleeping relatives.

  


He was swimming again, splashing about next to Aunt May, who was screaming at the huge, oily monster. It snapped threateningly at her, needle-like teeth threatening to rip her legs from her body.

  


“Hey- Aunt May!” Peter shouted.

  


She turned to look at him, eyes going wide. Unnoticed by Aunt May, the monster stilled, falling harmlessly unmoving as soon as she wasn’t paying it attention. “Peter! Why are you swimming in your pyjamas?”

  


Peter smiled at her, following these new instincts. “I’m not swimming, Aunt May. We’re eating breakfast in the kitchen.”

  


And then… they were eating breakfast in the kitchen. Peter could still feel the dampness of his clothes as he chewed cereal, smiling at his Aunt as she blinked, confused for a few seconds. She shrugged, accepting the new reality of her dream, and spooned a small amount of porridge into her mouth.

  


The next morning, Peter woke up on the edge of the bed with Aunt May, his fingers still pressed against her temple, having had the first properly restful sleep of his short life.

  


* * *

  


Life was never simple for Peter Parker after that. Sometimes the nightmares of people blocks away would call out to him in the middle of the night. If he didn’t go to them, he would spend the rest of the night awake, suffering through whatever horrors they had conjured. If he did go to them, he would have to find a way to break into their apartment, help them and hope he could get out without waking them up.

  


Sometimes, he was able to wake himself up once he’d put them back into a restful sleep. Rarely, it was more difficult than that. It was lucky that in the thirteen years he’d been doing this, he’d never been caught in someone else’s bed.

  


His nighttime problems gave him a pale, sleep-deprived look, dark circles permanently etched onto his face, his cheeks hollow. He lived life feeling perpetually exhausted, and it impacted his ability to function. He was a clever, naturally gifted student, but he had to put his college studies on hold in his second year and had yet to go back, instead working as a lab assistant for Oscorp.

  


His uncle had died a few years ago, and he knew that Aunt May despaired of him, worrying about him constantly. But he had never been able to tell her the truth:  _ I can enter people’s dreams and change them _ was a one-way ticket to a lot of trouble, and he knew that. The world had changed a lot in the past few years, with the rise of the Avengers, but what was wrong with him was never going to be accepted or understood.

  


It was invasive to get inside someone else’s head. Even if people believed him, they would hate him for it.

  


The only person who  _ did _ know was Ned. Ned knew because one night, when they were still in their early teens, Ned had suffered with a nightmare during a sleepover at Peter’s; what had started as a horrifying chase from a clown had ended up with Peter and Ned tickling the clown until the clown melted away. Ned had woken up, pleasantly confused, to find Peter curled into his side with his fingers biting into his temple. Ned was the sort of person who could easily believe anything (it was both his best and worst quality) and Peter had given him as much explanation as he knew.

  


“Dude, you should give yourself a nickname!” Ned had said a few years later. “Like Iron Man.”

  


“I think that one’s taken,” Peter had replied, drily.

  


“No! I mean, think about it. Everyone loves people with superpowers now, don’t they?”

  


“I rather feel you’ve missed a significant chunk of the news if you think that-”

  


“So, you should give yourself a name based on your power!”

  


Peter had snorted. “It’s hardly a power.”

  


“Like the Sandman.”

  


“Dreadful,” Peter had replied.

  


“Snorlax?”

  


“Dude, I’m not naming myself after a Pokemon.”

  


Ned had waved his arms excitedly. “The Dreamcatcher!”

  


Peter had laughed, punching his friend in the arm. “I don’t need a name. Nobody ever sees me more than once. They don’t even  _ see _ me, except in their dreams.” That was true enough. A visit from Peter seemed to be enough to stop people from having nightmares for good. Peter never visited anyone more than once.

  


Not until Wade Wilson.

  


It was almost thirteen years exactly since the first time Peter had used his strange curse to help Aunt May when he woke in the middle of the night, sweaty and alarmed, his heart pounding in his chest. The dream had been blood… so much blood. The invisible, powerful pull was there, and Peter sighed, standing up and pulling a sweater over his threadbare, striped pyjamas. He slipped on his sneakers and headed for the window. He still lived with his Aunt May, and the necessity of his nighttime adventures had led him to become most adept at sneaking in and out of windows. He was small generally, skinny and short, but his body was very strong.

  


One apartment across the street often had lights on all night, and Peter had noticed a man watching him from there more than once. But mostly, he never really encountered anyone on his journeys. He only seemed able to pick up the nightmares of people within a couple of square miles, so the trips were thankfully short, and the little suburb they lived in was quiet at this time of night.

  


He climbed easily down the fire escape. The street was cold; it was that time of year when orange leaves scattered the road, and a permanent icy drizzle filled the air. He shivered, wondering if he needed to start leaving a jacket by the window, too.

  


The pull was strong tonight, urgent. Whoever it was having this nightmare was suffering badly. Peter followed it, blinking sleepily.

  


The apartment block was only in the next street. The connection he had forged with the nightmare was pulling him upwards, and so, with a sigh, he started to climb the fire escape. It was slippy, with several missing pieces, but he continue climbing higher until he reached the right floor.

  


The window was open despite the cold, and he stuck his face in to check that nobody else was awake. The place was silent, and the air smelled of Mexican food and masculine sweat. He frowned a little, then climbed in, landing lightly on his feet in the living room. The place was open plan, so the kitchen was against one wall, a sofa and small desk against the other. There was stuff everywhere: stacks of books, something that looked an awful lot like a shotgun, piles of video games. Whoever was having this nightmare was not domestic.

  


There was an urgent tug along the connection, and Peter followed into a bedroom which was scattered with clothes. A solitary man slept alone in the middle of the bed, his thick body tangled up in dark jersey blankets. It was always hard to see people in the half-light Peter tended to work in, but despite this, he could see the strange scarring on the man’s face and head.

  


Something bad had happened to him.

  


Peter crossed to the bed, sitting down silently beside the man and reaching out, as always, to brush his fingers against the man’s temple. The skin there was weirdly pitted and surprisingly soft.

  


This close, he could smell the man’s skin, woody and warm.

  


Then he entered the nightmare.

  


There was blood- blood everywhere, splashed up walls and gathering in puddles on the floor. Peter shrank back against the wall instinctively, watching the broad, muscular, tall shape in the red and black suit wielding two long swords slice up wave after wave of men in business suits. Peter knew the name of the man in red: it was Deadpool, a guy who sometimes made the front page of the Bugle for his outrageous and dangerous behaviour.

  


As far as Peter could tell, this had never happened in real life; the scene had the sort of abstract quality some dreams took on which suggested that large chunks of it were fabricated. The mercenary continued slicing up the men, legs separating from bodies with wet thuds. Disgusting, but not the worst thing that Peter had ever seen.

  


He needed to find the man having the dream. That was the key to stopping the nightmare. He couldn’t see the unusual-looking man, though; he wasn’t in the pile of bodies, or pressed against a wall.

  


“Hey!” he shouted, finally, and everyone in the dream stopped. Deadpool and the dozen men rushing towards him all paused and turned to look at the small guy who had invaded this dreadful nightmare. “Has anyone seen a bald guy? Big fellow, unusual skin? Bad at housekeeping?”

  


Deadpool laughed loudly. He took a step towards Peter, the men forgotten, and they started to melt away. With gloved fingers, the mercenary reached for his mask and pulled it off, revealing the face of the man Peter was currently in bed with. He had a wide, lovely smile and glittering hazel eyes, currently bright with amusement. Was he Deadpool? Or merely dreaming that he was? “One ugly, untidy guy at your service, beautiful,” Deadpool boomed. “Wade Wilson. And who, may I ask, are you?”

  


Peter blinked. It was rare for the people whose dreams he interrupted to realise that they didn’t actually know him from their waking life. “My name is Peter,” he told him. “I’m here to stop this nightmare.”

  


Wade Wilson cocked his head, thoughtfully, eyes sizing him up. “You don’t look like a hero,” he told Peter slowly.

  


Peter frowned, offended. “You don’t look like one either, but here you are in your dreams dressed up as one, pal.”

  


“Deadpool isn’t a hero according to most people,” Wade Wilson replied.

  


Peter was quite convinced he’d never managed to get into an argument with the person whose nightmare he’d been sent to fix. And yet, here he was, squabbling with one Wade Wilson. “Look, can we just get on with this?”

  


“Sure,” Wade agreed, shrugging. “What do you need to do?”

  


“Distract you. Replace the bad images with good ones.”

  


Wade took a step towards him. “Any ideas for nice images we could… create together?”

  


Was he  _ flirting _ with Peter? Another first. Peter frowned again. It wasn’t that Mr Wilson didn’t have perfectly lovely eyes, or a frankly sinful body, but it wouldn’t be right to allow things to take that route. He had no idea how much control the guy had over his actions.

  


Peter raised his hands defensively. “None of that, please, Mr Wilson.”

  


“Where have you come from?” Wade asked thoughtfully, a sudden frown on his face. He shook his head. “Do you usually choose what comes next?”

  


“No. I just guide the person to the next step.”

  


“So it’s my choice.” Wade closed his eyes, frowning as he thought hard.

  


The blood-soaked alley vanished, replaced with a huge bed they were both sitting on. It was draped in red and black silk sheets.

  


“Classy,” Peter scoffed.

  


“Just let me hold you, strange dream invader,” Wade said, gently.

  


Peter shrugged. There was nothing unappealing about the idea; Wade’s body was firm and delightful, and it would be nice to be held. He couldn’t remember anyone else asking to get cosy with him during one of these dream trips. So he shuffled around, lying on his side, facing Wade.

  


“Are you Deadpool?” he asked, as Wade draped a thick arm across his waist.

  


Wade laughed. “No, I’m just dressed up like this because I’m a big fan of how he looks like a piece of ham after three rounds of radiotherapy.” He dug his fingers into Peter’s ribs a little, tickling him softly, making him squirm. “Of course I am, you asshole.”

  


* * *

  


Peter woke up, his body curled into Wade Wilson’s side. The mercenary was still fast asleep, a small smile on his lips.

  


With an emotion which was a lot like regret, Peter gently untangled himself from Wade’s blankets and crossed silently towards the window, his mind focused on those sparkling hazel eyes and wide, wicked grin. Of all the unsettling things Peter had seen over the years in people’s dreams, nothing had ever made him feel more unsettled than the way he felt when he remembered that face.


	2. two

Three weeks later, Peter felt the pull to Wade Wilson for a second time.

 

This had never happened before; Peter had never had to go back to a person more than once. Whether that was because they were cured of their nightmares or not was a question he would never have an answer to; the strange link he formed with people seemed to have its own agenda, unknowable to him.

 

But he woke in his bed, clammy and shaking, with the unfamiliar sensation of _knowing_ the pull leading him from sleep. In the same way that individuals each had a unique scent, the force which guided Peter had a unique feel for each person, and this was the first time he had ever felt it more than once.

 

He was excited to see Wade again. He had walked past that building several times in the last few weeks, hoping to catch a glimpse of those sparkling eyes, but he hadn’t spotted him; it was ridiculous anyway. Peter doubted Wade would remember him from his dream.

 

Deadpool had been in the newspaper two days ago. He’d shot some muggers. Peter had fingered the photograph thoughtfully, wondering if his Wade Wilson was really the mercenary.

 

As he pulled on his jumper and coat over his pyjamas, Peter had a pang of sadness. The fact that he was being tugged in Wade’s direction once more meant that the man was having more nightmares.

 

He set off, climbing down the fire escape as usual. Outside, the first snow of the year had fallen, lending the street a gentle white glow. His sneakers crunched in it as he walked quickly. The tug of the bond between Peter and Wade’s nightmare was strong.

 

He climbed up the fire escape carefully, mindful of the snow making it incredibly slippy. The window stood open even though it was freezing, and Peter slid inside for the second time.

 

Like last time, the place was untidy, and there was the scent of Mexican food in the air. Peter paused to look around more carefully this time, unable to stifle his curiosity. Several photos and drawings had been taped to the fridge. Most of the drawings were badly coloured pictures of unicorns. There were two photographs of a smiling woman, beautiful and happy. Was she Wade Wilson’s girlfriend? Peter felt a pang of something which might be called jealousy at the thought. There was a single photograph of a handsome man with a shock of wild brown hair sitting topless at a beach bar. Peter recognised the grin and the hazel eyes. This was Wade before… well, before whatever had happened to him.

 

The link between him and present-day Wade tightened, presumably as the other man experienced something awful in his dreams, and Peter abandoned his examination to go to him. The bedroom was cold, but Wade had kicked off the blanket down to his waist, revealing that the strange scars trailed down his entire torso. His chest and arms were beautiful, huge and muscled, and Peter remembered the weight of Wade’s arm over him in the dream.

 

Sighing, Peter sat down and touched his temple.

 

The bloody alleyway again: Deadpool was standing there, slicing men relentlessly, limbs flying off in a crimson torrent. It was horrifying to watch; the muscles in the arms Peter had just been admiring rippled as Wade attacked wave after wave of assailants.

 

Peter opened his mouth to stop this, but he must have arrived a second too late: a blade pierced Deadpool’s stomach. The mercenary let out a hollow laugh and slid to the floor.

 

“Shit,” Peter said, aloud, and the attackers vanished, leaving only the bloody alley and the dying man on the ground.

 

Peter ran over, falling to his knees beside Wade. He had never experienced someone dying in their dream before; wasn’t there a theory that if you die in your dream you die in real life? What would happen to Peter if Wade died here? Would he be trapped in Wade Wilson’s alley nightmare forever?

 

“Are you okay?” he asked, his hands covering the wound.

 

“Don’t I know you?” Wade replied, in a faint voice.

 

“Wade!” Peter shouted, trying to keep him focused. “Are you okay?”

 

“Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man,” Deadpool responded, laughing darkly.

 

“Are you… are you seriously quoting Shakespeare on your deathbed?”

 

“Deathbed,” replied Wade mildly, surprising Peter by sitting up suddenly. He pushed Peter’s hands aside with his own strong, gloved fingers and revealed that, although the rip in his suit was still there, he was very much unwounded. “I can heal a wound like that in minutes, beautiful.”

 

This was the second time he had called Peter ‘beautiful’, and this time, it made Peter blush. “Did you dream yourself healed? That’s really clever, Mr Wilson,” Peter said, ignoring his flirting. “If you’re so good at controlling your dream, I don’t really know why I’m even here.”

 

“I did not _dream_ myself healed, whatever the fuck that means,” Wade replied, pulling his mask off and revealing those beautiful eyes, which were currently narrowed at Peter. “This is what my life is like. I can’t die and my life is a nightmare because of it.” He grinned suddenly, disarming Peter with that beautiful, twisted smile. “I do know you, don’t I? Where did we meet?”

 

Peter sighed. He was a little disappointed that Wade doesn’t remember him, although there was no reason why he would. “My name is Peter. We met here, once before. A few weeks ago.”

 

Wade narrowed his eyes, clearly thinking hard. He cocked his head, then reached out to take Peter’s hand, holding it, his expression serious. “Did we fuck?”

 

Peter laughed at him. “No, asshole, we did not fuck. I don’t make a habit of going into people’s dreams and having sex with their unconscious mind. That would be quite morally bad.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wade replied gently, “but if this is my unconscious mind I’d be quite happy for you to have sex with it.”

 

Peter blushed again, furiously. He couldn’t understand why Wade Wilson, who was older and beautiful and funny, would flirt with him, even in a dream. “Your conscious mind might not feel the same.”

 

Wade raised his free hand. “Clearly, baby boy, we have never met in real life. If we had, you would realise that my conscious mind would give almost anything to have sex with you. You are absolutely gorgeous.”

 

“What about your girlfriend?” Peter asked, aware that he had to stop this line of conversation and quickly.

 

“My… girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend, Peter. Unless you’re counting my left hand, and I really hope you aren’t.”

 

“You have her photos on your fridge.”

 

Wade’s eyes widened. His free hand reached out to cup Peter’s cheek, the fingers warm and firm. It felt lovely; Peter had to fight the urge to close his eyes and turn into Wade’s hand. “Are you in my apartment?” Wade asked.

 

“Yes. This is a dream, Mr Wilson-”

 

“If this was a dream, you’d be calling me Wade. Or something far more interesting.”

 

Peter punched his arm playfully. “I’ll call you Wade, then. You’re such an ass. Are you listening? This is a dream. A nightmare, in fact. I came to stop it.”

 

“You’ve done this for me before.” This was a statement, not a question.

 

“Three weeks ago,” Peter replied.

 

“Why? Are you, you know, a real person?” Wade was leaning forward now, examining Peter’s face closely.

 

Peter had never, ever had a conversation in a dream like this. He pinched Wade’s cheek, making him hiss. “Of course I’m a real person. My name is Peter Parker. I work as a lab assistant. My favourite colour is red.”

 

He threw those facts in to convince Wade that he was, in fact, real, but Wade seemed to be reacting to them in quite an unexpected way, a delighted smile crossing his face. “You’re a nerd,” he laughed fondly. “My little saviour is a beautiful nerd.”

 

Peter opened his mouth to reply to this in a disgruntled fashion, but Wade leaned forward, closing the gap between them completely, and kissed him. Peter let out an embarrassing little squeak, but didn’t push him away; Deadpool had soft, warm lips, and his kiss was tender and surprisingly caring. He didn’t push Peter too quickly, taking his time before increasing the pressure, his mouth working against Peter’s. It was good. It was, possibly, the best kiss of Peter’s life.

 

Not that there’d been many. Strange, sleep-deprived science nerds didn’t exactly get much romantic attention.

 

Wade drew back. “Was that okay?” he asked Peter, a strange look in his eyes.

 

Peter nodded without thinking, but then forced himself back into reality; he couldn’t do this. “Your girlfriend,” he managed, the words coming out strangled.

 

“I don’t know how to say this in a way which won’t ruin the perfectly romantic mood we’re currently enjoying, baby, but she’s dead.”

 

“Oh.” Peter felt awful. “God, I’m sorry.”

 

“Hardly your fault, strange dream invader,” Wade replied lightly. “Hey- if you’re in my apartment, does that mean you’re… you know… in bed with me?”

 

Peter laughed at his abrupt topic change. “I suppose so, yes.”

 

“I am so jealous of real-life Wade Wilson right now,” Wade sighed, closing his eyes.

 

“You’re asleep. You have no idea I’m there. You’ll forget me once you wake up.” The words make Peter feel a stab of sadness.

 

Wade opened his eyes again, the hazel depths piercing Peter. “How could I forget you?”

 

“You will. You did last time.”

 

Wade shook his head, his face disbelieving. His hands were on Peter’s face now, fingers stroking his cheekbones. He shifted, so that he was facing Peter on his knees, mimicking Peter’s own position. “Impossible. You are unforgettable, Peter Parker.”

 

Peter laughed, but he didn’t feel amused. In his entire life, nobody had ever said anything even approaching that level of romance, and he was being told it in a dream only he would remember. He actually felt close to tears.

 

Wade kissed him again, this time with more passion, pressing his chest against Peter’s. Peter gave into the kiss without thinking, his hands reaching up to wrap around Wade’s shoulders. Wade’s fingers tangled into Peter’s hair.

 

“I won’t forget you,” Wade whispered into his mouth.

 

They were no longer in the alley; they were, instead, in the silk-covered bed they had ended up in last time. Wade blinked, confused.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“We’re not in the nightmare anymore,” Peter replied. His words trembled. “That means I won’t be here much longer.”

 

Wade frowned. Then his eyes brightened as he noticed, apparently for the first time, Peter’s outfit. “What the hell are you wearing, Peter?”

 

Peter was, of course, wearing his striped pyjamas, a lumpy sweater and a black wool coat. Hardly the sexiest outfit imaginable. “It’s snowing outside,” he replied tartly. “I didn’t realise parading around in that spandex and leather monstrosity gave you some sort of fashion police status.”

 

Wade laughed fondly. “God, you must be real. I couldn’t have invented someone as perfect as you.”

 

Peter smiled back, reluctantly, his heart swelling. A vague darkness was pressing at the edges of his vision, a sure sign that he was about to wake up.

 

“Couldn’t you just… stay?” Wade asked, quietly. “Like, in my bed? Until I wake up.”

 

“If you are Deadpool, and I really do think you are-”

 

“Why the fuck else would I be dressed like this, beautiful?”

 

“- then your first thought upon waking up in bed with me is very likely to be that you’re being attacked. You’ll kill me.”

 

“I wouldn’t _ever_ hurt you,” Wade said, in a forceful and sincere tone. “God, Peter, I would never.”

 

Peter sighed. He took Wade’s hand, pressing his lips to the scarred knuckles. For the first time ever, he wished he could stay in the dream. “You wouldn’t. But real-life Wade Wilson isn’t going to remember this, or me. As far as I know, only one person ever remembered, and he didn’t really remember. If you did remember, by the time you had realised it, I’d be dead already.”

 

Wade sighed. “I’ll come find you, then.”

 

“You won’t re-”

 

“Let me try, please. Please, Peter.”

 

Peter smiled sadly. “I live in the next street. Block number five, apartment seven.”

 

“You live in the next street?” Wade exhaled. “Literally the most perfect man in the world lives in the next street?”

 

The blackness was eating in now. Throwing caution to the wind, Peter threw his arms around Wade’s neck and kissed him one final time.

 

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Wade Wilson did not remember, and he did not come to visit Peter Parker. Peter tried his best not to be disappointed, but he couldn’t forget the way Wade’s mouth had felt against his own.


	3. three

Surprisingly, the next time Peter saw Wade Wilson was in a coffee shop while both of them were wide awake. Unsurprisingly, Wade did not recognise him.

 

At least, he didn’t  _ fully _ recognise him.

 

Peter was on his way home from work. It was close to a month since his second visit to Wade’s bedroom, and he had given up on Wade keeping his promise to remember him. It was hard not to feel hurt by it; after all, it had never happened before, but then again, nobody had ever been so tender with Peter, either awake or asleep.

 

Peter was starting to be tempted by the idea of simply going up to Wade’s apartment and knocking on the door. He could very quickly figure out if Wade’s assertion that his fully-conscious self would want Peter too was correct or not. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t right. He had invaded Wade Wilson’s dreams. It wasn’t real-life Wade’s problem if Peter Parker had developed feelings for his slumbering self.

 

These thoughts were cascading around Peter’s head in a loop as he pushed open the door to the coffee shop, glad to step out of the cold, snowy evening into the warmth and glowing lights. He was exhausted after a long day and a typically disrupted night preceding it, and he knew he wasn’t looking his best: he wore his battered coat over skinny jeans, a green wool hat jammed over his messy hair. The ends were curling from the damp air.

 

The coffee shop was quiet as it edged towards the end of the working day. Peter stepped up to the counter and vaguely recognised the grey-eyed barista as a woman who had, a few months ago, had a nightmare about some piranhas.

 

“A large cappuccino, please,” Peter said.

 

She smiled and turned to make his coffee. Peter felt the cool breeze of the door opening and closing, then heard heavy boots behind him. He turned to glance over his shoulder and offer the newcomer a tired smile, but the smile froze at the corners of his lips when he realised that the man standing behind him in line was none other than Deadpool, fully dressed in black and red, his face covered by the now-familiar mask. He was heavily armed, and if Peter didn’t know him he would be terrified (and this, really, was a ridiculous thought, because Peter didn’t  _ know _ Deadpool at all).

 

Deadpool wasn’t looking at Peter at all; instead, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Peter realised that there was a slightly different shade of red there, and the fingers of Deadpool’s glove were wet.

 

“You’ve been hurt,” Peter said, without thinking. “Are you okay?”

 

Deadpool’s attention did move to Peter then, and he cocked his head as he looked down at him. The mercenary was so much larger than Peter that he regretted speaking at all, feeling momentarily like a small piece of prey. “Do I know you?” Deadpool asked, and it was  _ his _ voice; Wade Wilson’s rich, familiar tones. Peter felt his heart rate increase.

 

“How would you know me?” Peter asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

 

Deadpool disappointed him by shrugging, casually, and Peter felt his heart sink. The barista returned with Peter’s coffee, placing it down with a loud clatter, and Peter turned away from Deadpool to hand her his money with trembling fingers.

 

“Sorry to bother you, miss, but could I please have some water for my bullet wound?” Deadpool asked, his voice rumbling behind Peter.

 

“It’ll be two dollars for water,” she replied, eyeing the mercenary suspiciously.

 

“I don’t have a wallet on me,” Deadpool sighed, dramatically. “I did sustain this injury saving three old ladies and a cat from some-”

 

“No money, no water,” the barista replied sharply.

 

“I’ll get it,” Peter offered, the words out of his mouth before he even had a chance to consider them. He handed her the crumpled notes and she frowned at them both, turning to collect the water.

 

“Hey,” Wade murmured, and one hand came down to touch Peter’s shoulder. The feel of his thick fingers was horribly, unsettlingly familiar, and Peter turned crimson, remembering the taste of the kiss the mercenary couldn’t even remember giving him. “Thanks for that. I owe you one.”

 

Peter turned to him. Trapped between the counter and Deadpool, he swallowed, holding the paper cup of coffee between them like a weapon. Part of him wanted to reach up, push the mask out of the way, and kiss Deadpool. He felt the pull to the mercenary just as strongly when they were both awake, but he knew that, as always, it was one-sided. Wade Wilson was glorious, his muscular frame hugged in spandex and leather, and there was simply no way he would be interested in a tiny, sleep-deprived scientist with weird taste in hats.

 

“No problem,” Peter managed, and the words came out in a strangled squeak. “I should…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the door, half-hoping that Wade would push him back against the counter and refuse to let him go.

 

But Deadpool stepped to one side, one hand still on his bleeding shoulder, and Peter walked past him, heading to the door on trembling legs.

 

He turned back when he opened it, and saw that Deadpool was still staring at him, ignoring the bottle of water the barista had placed on the counter.

 

* * *

That night, the connection to Wade Wilson woke him from sleep. He wasn’t really surprised; he had fallen asleep thinking about him, how his fingers had felt on his shoulder in real life, how he had smelled. It made sense to wake up wanting him.

 

And Peter was starting to worry that it was this desire for Wade Wilson that was causing the connection to Wade’s nightmares to keep occuring. On some subconscious level, was Peter’s own attachment to the strange mercenary what kept him going back? Or was Wade’s own tortured subconscious so awful that his nightmares kept pulling Peter towards him?

 

He got up, wondering if he should just ignore the pull to Wade. This wasn’t healthy. Wade didn’t remember him, and he was going to start to develop feelings anew for Peter every single time Peter entered his dreams, whereas Peter was falling more deeply every single time.

 

Ultimately, he wasn’t strong enough to leave Wade suffering through his nightmare alone. He pulled his jumper on, reaching for his coat and hat, then began his traditional climb down to the street. The light opposite burned brightly, and he waved sardonically at the figure there before reaching the ground and setting off at a run.

 

The snow was crisp, cool and deep, soaking easily through his shoes, and he was vaguely aware that he was going to have to start wearing boots on these nighttime adventures.

 

A few minutes later, he was climbing in Wade’s window, shivering. The place looked the same as usual, and he followed the pull to Wade’s bedroom, seeing his favourite mercenary tangled up in his blankets, a crease between his eyes. He slipped off his cold coat and shoes before sitting down, not wanting to startle Wade awake by making him feel chilly; he couldn’t imagine a worse way to die than being strangled to death by a confused and half-asleep Deadpool.

 

His fingers brushed Wade’s temple.

 

The nightmare was different tonight; Wade was lying in the middle of a burnt-out, destroyed city, alone. There was no sound, no screaming or crying, no distant traffic. The road Wade was lying on looked as though it had been destroyed years ago, then untouched. The sky was a strange, steely blue, unnatural and sick-looking.

 

Wade himself was dressed as Deadpool, but without a mask or weapons. He stared with those bright eyes at the sky, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

 

“I don’t understand,” Peter said.

 

Wade sat up at his voice, wiping the tear away roughly, looking surprised. “I can’t die, can I? So eventually… this is what’s going to happen to me. Existing at the end of all things. The last motherfucker left.” His voice was hoarse, and a little afraid.

 

Peter didn’t know how to reply to that; this concept was terrifying to him, too. “Surely there’s something…” he managed.

 

Wade shrugged, cocking his head thoughtfully, his own existential angst forgotten for a moment. “Do I know you?” he asked, the words familiar.

 

Peter sighed. He took a step closer to Wade, the pull apparently continuing even though he was already inside Wade’s mind. “Not really. We’ve been here before. Well, not in this post-apocalyptic hellscape you’ve created, but in another of your nightmares.”

 

Wade scrunched his face, apparently thinking hard. “Yes. I remember… your name is… it’s…”

 

Peter tried not to feel too disappointed. He remembered the way Wade had promised he wouldn’t forget him; he had known then that it was inevitable. “My name is Peter Parker,” he said quietly.

 

Wade was still frowning, but he leapt easily to his feet, towering above Peter. He held out his hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Peter Parker, my name is-”

 

“Wade Wilson,” Peter interrupted, sadly. “I know quite a lot about you. You’re Deadpool, you can’t die, you have a dead girlfriend, you can’t colour in for shit but you keep the pictures you draw on your fridge anyway, and you got shot in the shoulder today.” He shook Wade’s hand with a humourless laugh.

 

Wade laughed too, his fingers locking around Peter’s with worrying strength. “What do you mean, I can’t colour in for shit, you little asshole?” he asked, with warmth.

 

Peter opened his mouth to reply, a cocky response on his tongue, but suddenly, Wade grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him quite firmly against the brick wall of an abandoned building, glowering down at him.

 

“How did you know I got shot in the shoulder today?” he demanded, and all of the humour was gone from his voice, replaced by a threatening, deep rumble.

 

Peter had made a mistake referring to an interaction he’d had with Wade in real-life; he wasn’t sure what would happen to him if Wade couldn’t remember meeting him in the coffee shop. He didn’t know if he could genuinely be hurt in someone else’s dream.

 

“We met today,” Peter said, quickly, his heart racing. “We met in the coffee shop.”

 

Wade was still frowning, his huge hands curled tightly around Peter’s shoulders.

 

“You came in behind me. I was wearing a hat.... this hat, in fact…” Peter was aware that he was babbling, trapped beneath Wade’s hazel glare. “Please tell me you remember me, Wade. Please remember me.”

 

Something like recognition flickered in Wade’s eyes, and the hands on Peter’s shoulders relaxed slightly. Peter wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he reached up, going onto his tiptoes, and pressed his mouth against Wade’s then, praying that Wade reacted positively. Wade’s mouth relaxed automatically, his lips working against Peter’s, one of his hands going up to curl gently in Peter’s hair while the other one slid down to his hip.

 

Peter drew back, hoping the kiss was enough to spark recognition.

 

Wade’s eyes were wet. “You bought me water,” he mumbled.

 

“You  _ do _ remember me,” Peter breathed, a smile crossing his face. Wade was capable of remembering him after all, at least in real life.

 

“Of course. You are unforgettable, Peter Parker.” Wade brushed Peter’s cheek with his thumb, staring hungrily at him now. “Have we… have we done this before?”

 

“In your dreams? Yes. In real life, we only met today.” Peter sighs. “We’ll probably never meet again.”

 

“Tell me that isn’t true,” Wade replied, firmly, one hand going around Peter’s chin and holding it so that they were making eye contact.

 

“I can’t go to you. It isn’t right.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Just because you… think you feel a certain way about me in your dreams, it doesn’t mean anything. You weren’t exactly romantic when we met today.” Peter felt a stab of pain at the memory.

 

“Where are you?” Wade stepped closer, pressing his hips against Peter’s. “Where are you now?”

 

“In… in your bed.” Peter closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of Wade pressed flush against him.

 

“Just stay there.” Wade bent his head, his lips brushing against Peter’s ear, making goosebumps erupt helplessly down Peter’s throat. “Stay in my bed. Let me wake up to you. You’ll see exactly how a fully-conscious Wade Wilson would feel about you.”

 

“You’d… you’d kill me,” Peter breathed, becoming aroused despite himself, bucking his hips against Wade. “You’d think I was…”

 

“I’d think you were the greatest gift I’ve ever woken up to,” Wade said, biting his teeth firmly around Peter’s earlobe and earning a moan. “And I’m counting every Christmas morning when I say that.”

 

“You would  _ kill  _ me, Wade,” Peter replied, firmly, pushing Wade back. The mercenary could easily overpower him, but didn’t. Wade moved back the moment Peter applied resistance. “I know you don’t feel like you would now. But I saw you today, I saw what  _ Deadpool _ is like. You are huge and terrifying. Your instinct would be to kill me first and question it later.”   
  


Wade frowned. “Peter, my instinct when I see you is to make sure you get a good night’s sleep, then possibly fuck you until you can’t walk, but that’s it.”   
  


Tears of frustration built in Peter’s eyes, and he swallowed. “I can’t risk it. What if you killed me and  _ then _ remembered me? You’d hate yourself, too.”

 

“I just don’t think it would happen.” Wade rubbed his head, staring down at Peter. “I feel like I  _ know _ you.”

 

“You don’t. This is only the third time we’ve met. Fourth if you include today.”

 

“But you… you know things about me,” Wade replied. He stepped back, crossing to a charred bench and sitting down. “About my life, my house… my shit art skills.”

 

Peter hesitated, then closed his eyes. Wade wasn’t going to remember this, anyway, so what harm was there in telling him the truth? “I’ve never come back to someone more than once before. I am pretty sure I’ve fallen in love with you.”

 

Wade blinked. “With me? That’s impossible. You are beautiful, Peter. I must be dreaming. There’s no way someone like you is in love with someone like me.”

 

Peter stood still, vaguely aware that he had balled his hands into fists. “I’m sorry, but I am pretty sure I am.”

 

Wade didn’t reply. A range of emotions crossed his face, and there was real, intense pain in his eyes for a moment. He patted the bench beside him and Peter sat down, joining him in staring out at the apocalypse of Wade’s nightmares. Slowly, Wade reached out and held Peter’s hand.

 

“If you love me, let me know you in real life,” Wade murmured.

 

“I can’t. You have to remember me. I won’t force you to know me.”

 

“How have I forgotten you before?” Wade wondered. “You are the most perfect thing. What can I do? How can I remember?”

 

Peter shrugged. “I wish I knew.  I live in the next street. Block number five, apartment seven. If you remember, that’s where you’ll find me.”

 

Wade kissed the side of his head, lingering to breath in the scent of Peter’s hair. “I’m going to remember,” he promised. “I swear it, Peter.”

 

They were both crying now, tears flowing freely down both faces.

 

“What shall we do now?” Wade asked. “Do we usually have sex? Because, I’ll be honest, that’s something I’d like to remember.”

 

Peter laughed through his tears, smacking Wade playfully in the arm. “We haven’t had sex, I’m afraid.”

 

“That makes sense. Even the beautiful angel who invades my nightmares and claims to be in love with me can’t look past my hideous and alarming visage.” Wade was grinning, sliding his arm around Peter and drawing him close.

 

“Shut up, Wade,” Peter replied. “I clearly don’t find you repulsive. Or at least, I don’t find your face repulsive. Your personality, on the other hand…”

 

Wade laughed. “I adore you,” he said. “I adore you, weird dream boy.” He kissed Peter again, softly and slowly, holding him gently.

 

They sat together, watching the sun begin to dip behind the ruined horizon. Peter felt something approaching contentment. Wade Wilson was never going to remember him, but he had this moment. In this moment, he was pressed against Wade, clearly cared for by him. That might have to be enough.

 

“ I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Peter,” Wade said, solemnly.

 

“Did you just quote Lord of the Rings? You dork,” Peter snorted.

 

“You’re… you’re a scientist,” Wade breathed, and Peter felt his stomach twist. “I can remember. I think. You’re a  _ dork _ and that’s why… that’s what made me… I am going to remember  _ everything _ eventually, baby.”

 

As he swore that, the apocalyptic city faded, and they were back in the silk sheets of Wade’s dream bed.

 

“You’re going to disappear, aren’t you?” Wade asked sadly.

 

Peter nodded.

 

Wade pulled him close, kissing him. “I won’t forget. I won’t. I promise, this time I won’t.”

 

Peter wanted to believe him.


	4. four

Peter spent the following day, exhausted, remembering the taste of Wade Wilson’s kiss. He went home via the coffee shop, hoping to bump into Deadpool again, but he wasn’t around.

Of course.

He was physically hurting from his tiredness as he limped upstairs to the apartment he shared with Aunt May, clutching a coffee in one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose in the other, feeling the beginnings of a bad headache. When he pushed open the door and went inside, he half-expected to see Wade lying across their sofa, grinning. But, of course, he wasn’t. His promises to remember Peter were empty. It wasn’t his fault. Dream Wade Wilson seemed to care deeply for Peter, but in real life, their only interaction was that awkward moment in the coffee shop.

“You look tired,” Aunt May told him, frowning at him over the newspaper she was reading.

Peter gave a humourless smile. “I think I’m coming down with something. I’m going to get an early night.” This was true; he didn’t think he could force his body to do anything at all. He gave his Aunt a kiss and headed into his bedroom, closing the door and pulling his clothes off as quickly as his weak arms could manage.

He slipped his pyjamas on, climbed beneath his blanket, and fell asleep.

* * *

One thing that Peter Parker did not do was dream.

He could share other people’s dreams, sometimes saw hints of them when he closed his eyes, and of course, he could slot himself into other people’s nightmares. But he didn’t have dreams of his own.

Not until Wade Wilson.

So it was that, that night, exhausted and miserable, Peter had his first dream. It was daybreak in Wade’s apartment, and he was standing beside the window, looking out at the golden sunrise. He felt content, and strangely clear-headed. He was wearing a jumper and jeans, his feet bare against the cool floor.

He turned to look at the coffee table, which was covered in papers. There were drawings on a lot of them, and Peter recognised his own face. Wade was clearly a dreadful artist, even in Peter’s dreams, but the pink circle with brown hair and big brown eyes wearing striped pyjamas could only be Peter.

Peter laughed.

“Wow, you’re dreaming about my apartment. That’s not exactly thrilling stuff.”

Peter jumped at the voice, turning to see Wade standing behind him. He was dressed as Deadpool, but without the mask. His hazel eyes were alight with mischief.

“I’ve never dreamed before,” Peter told him, unsure why he thought to share this. “This is my first attempt at it. I’m sorry if it’s not very exciting.”

“You’ve never dreamed before?” Wade asked, cocking his head. “It’s not bad until you start to have a nightmare. But I’ve even started looking forward to those. There’s this little twitchy guy who keeps coming into them.” He smiled.

Peter stepped forward, reaching out to take Wade’s hands. “Of course you can remember me in my own dreams.”

Wade squeezed his fingers, looking down at them before looking up at his face. “How do you think I got here, my lovely little pal? I remembered you.”

“If only,” Peter sighed.

“You’re the one who said you’d never dreamed before.” Wade shrugged. “I was having a perfectly nice dream about guns and then I thought about you. There was… a thread? I followed it and ended up here.”

“So you aren’t awake.” Peter’s heart was beating quickly, his fingers tightly around Wade’s. Was it even possible? “But you chose to come here.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I am pretty sure I’m still asleep in bed. But I’m  _ here _ too.”

“Why?”

Wade frowned, apparently thinking hard. “You said… you said you were in love with me.”

Peter nodded. There was nothing to be gained by lying about it to a man who was never going to remember this exchange in his waking life. There was a very, very high possibility that Wade wasn’t actually even here. “I am.”

Wade bent down and kissed him. His lips were as soft and delicious as ever, his huge hands wrapping around Peter’s hips and holding him close. Peter kissed him back, savouring the taste and texture of his mouth. He wished he could do this forever.

“I remember you,” Wade whispered, when their mouths came apart. “Your name is Peter Parker. You’re a little dork.”

“That’s not very romantic-”

“Your favourite colour is red. You live in the next street.” Wade was chanting this almost like a mantra now. “I’ve tried so hard to remember when I’m awake but… I can’t. I just feel like I’ve forgotten something all the time.”

Peter’s arms were still around Wade’s throat, and he stood on his tiptoes to brush his lips against Wade’s again. “I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I didn’t want to make your sleeping self do anything-”

“You’re not hearing what I’m saying,” Wade replied, firmly, tweaking his nose in a strangely familiar way. “I am in love with you. And I’m going to realise that when I’m awake one of these days and kick your front door down.”

Peter felt joy flood him, but it was tempered by doubts. “You’re… in love with me? But how can you be?”

“Oh, I don’t fucking know, baby. You’re beautiful, and funny, and clever. You keep literally cropping up in my dreams and making my nightmares better.” Wade sighed. “You can look at my hideously deformed face and feel some inexplicable desire to kiss it. You are perfect, Peter.”

Perhaps Peter had been wrong; maybe he should have gone to Deadpool while they were both awake and explained their strange connection. Maybe he was just denying them both happiness with his insistence on not allowing their dream lives to impact their real lives. Standing in Wade’s warm embrace, pinned by his bright eyes, Peter felt a huge temptation to break his own rules.

“I really hope I might remember better since I’m technically not in my own dream,” Wade said. “But if I don’t… I need you to come to me, Peter.”

Peter bit his lip. “I don’t know…”

Wade kissed him, hard, pulling their bodies together. Peter couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more than to be devoured by the man, his body reacting automatically to his touch, his taste, his smell.

He was so absolutely in love with Wade.

“I want you,” Wade mumbled against his lips. “I want to… I want to do everything with you. Just in case we never get to do it in real life.”

Peter should say no. It wasn’t right, really. But his own body felt electric, his nerves on fire from being so close to Wade. So he nodded, wordlessly, drawing his mouth down Wade’s throat to bite the skin there.

Wade made a pleased sound, and his hands swept beneath Peter’s ass, lifting him easily so that Peter’s legs were wrapped around his waist. Peter had forgotten, somehow, that Wade was a very strong and dangerous mercenary, but he remembered now as he was carried to Wade’s bedroom. Wade was kissing his neck hard, leaving a trail of goosebumps and bruises.

“Have you done this before?” Wade asked, as Peter shivered in his arms.

“In a dream? No.” Peter trembled. “Actually… I never have in real life, either.” The confession came out in a rush.

Wade placed him on the bed and sat down beside him. “Ah. Well, I’ll be gentle with you. We don’t have to.... I don’t know if you want to lose your virginity in a dream…”

“I don’t think it’ll count,” Peter replied with a nervous laugh. “But… if I don’t know what I’m doing…”

“You’re doing just fine,” Wade said kindly, reaching for Peter’s hand and placing it on his spandex-clad crotch, where there was a hard bulge. “You are delicious.”

“I love you,” Peter said.

“You’re adorable and strange,” Wade laughed, kissing him, gently.

“Please… please…” Peter wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew that at some point in the past few moments he had abandoned any pretence of doing the right thing. He was never going to get to do this with Wade in real life. He wanted it now. It would have to be enough.

Wade undressed him with caring, gentle fingers. Finally, Peter lay shivering and naked before the mercenary, who was sitting back on his heels, staring down at the younger man who constantly invaded his nightmares.

“You are the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Wade told him, reverentially.

Then he touched Peter, those gloved fingers taking hold of him firmly and stroking. Peter let out a strangled cry, his hips bucking up automatically. With his other hand, Wade fumbled in his nightstand and produced some lubricant, oiling up his fingers and sliding one inside Peter gently. The combination of this with the pressure around his cock was enough to make Peter moan, long and loud, and he relaxed around Wade’s finger gradually, allowing him to slide in a second, and then eventually a third.

“Please…” Peter whimpered.

Wade undressed until he was naked, too. His skin was scarred all over his body, strange patterns which Peter trailed his fingers over as Wade positioned himself at Peter’s entrance, removing his fingers slowly and replacing them, inch by glorious, strange inch with his length. Peter hissed, the feeling overwhelming and a little uncomfortable, but Wade was slow with him, filling him gradually until he was entirely full, his legs wrapped around Wade’s waist, his face pressed into Wade’s neck.

“Is it okay?” Wade asked.

Peter flexed experimentally, the motion making a ripple of pleasure wash over him and causing Wade to moan. He smiled. “It’s good.”

“I love you,” Wade whispered into his ear.

Then, he started to move, and absolute bliss began to build within Peter. The feeling was unlike any he had ever known, his body prone and open beneath Wade’s firm, assured strokes. He was lost in it, his eyes screwed closed and his body on the verge of an enormous orgasm. Wade reached down and stroked him with his huge fingers, and that was all it took to send Peter cascading over the edge helplessly, screaming through his pleasure as he saw stars. Wade finished inside him moments later, his huge body tense and convulsing.

They lay together, Peter sore but content. Tears prickled his eyes. He was never going to feel this in real life unless Wade remembered him.

“I want you,” Wade mumbled against his ear. “I don’t know how else I can prove it to you. I’m no different when I’m awake. Wade Wilson would love to meet Peter Parker.”

“Please remember,” Peter whispered.

“Peter Parker. Your favourite colour is red. You’re a lab technician. You live in the street next to mine…” Wade was crying too, his wet tears on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter Parker. You love me. Your favourite colour is…”

He was still chanting when he disappeared, leaving Peter alone in his dream.


	5. five

Peter woke up before sunrise. His room was still dark and the first thing he was aware of was his own broken, muffled sobbing.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to find Wade Wilson and tell him everything. If Wade shunned him, well, it couldn’t hurt any more than this did.

He scrambled out of bed, pulling on his sneakers, jumper, coat and hat before opening the window and breathing in the bitingly cold air of the morning. The light opposite was out, and the street was absolutely silent. The usual pull of Wade’s dream wasn’t there to lead him, but his own powerful connection the man was his thread instead, and he followed it as he climbed down to the street.

He felt surprisingly clear-headed as he formed his plan. He was going to climb in through Wade’s window as he always did and then sit, just out of arm’s reach, at the end of his bed until he awoke. That way, even if Deadpool’s instinct was to murder the tired-looking intruder, it would give Peter an opportunity to explain himself. At worst, he was going to come across as a crazed fan.

He still felt a nervous twist in his stomach as he climbed up to Wade’s apartment, but this was the right thing to do for both of them.

The apartment was typically messy, but the journey into Wade’s bedroom was surprisingly disappointing: the mercenary wasn’t there. His bed was empty, but when Peter brushed his fingers across the sheets, they were still warm. He sat down, taking the position he had so many times before, except this time there was no Wade to brush his fingers against.

He rolled onto his side, breathing in the scent of the pillow. It smelled warm and sweaty, but not unpleasantly so. It smelled of Wade. He reached beneath it, intending to draw it close and hold it, but his fingers brushed against some papers under it.

He pulled them out; even in the half-light of the dark bedroom, he could see that they were drawings and notes Wade had done based on his encounters with Peter. Some of them were just stick-men- one tall stick-man with a dotted face hugging a shorter stick-man with a mass of brown hair. Some were more detailed; there was a beautiful image of a man with brown curls poking out from beneath a green woollen hat holding a coffee. Peter realised with a jolt that this was based on their only real-life encounter.

Wade had been trying so hard to remember.

One piece of paper had the letter ‘P’ scrawled across it dozens of times; another had the word ‘red’ written in capital letters and underlined.

Tears dropped down onto it from Peter’s eyes. He had tried to do the morally right thing by refusing to approach Wade in real-life, but it was clear that, in doing so, all he had actually done was cause them both pain.

Where was Wade? Had he gone out to do some unspeakable things as Deadpool? Peter must have just missed him. Should he stay here or go and look for him?

Part of him knew that he was being unreasonable. They had gone without meeting properly for weeks now. There was nothing dictating that they had to meet and resolve this now. But Peter had made his decision. If he didn’t act on it, he couldn’t guarantee that he would be brave enough to follow through.

He  _ wanted _ Wade. He wanted Wade with a burning intensity. He had never wanted anything before, not like this, not badly enough that his body ached with the lack of it.

He knew that Wade felt the same when he was asleep. He just had to find out if he felt the same when he was awake.

His own desires made the decision for him. He was going to follow Wade and try to find him before he ran out of bravery and abandoned this whole thing again. He stood up and left the apartment via the front door, exiting into the dark and quiet corridor. The whole building must still be asleep. Trying to avoid the constant temptation to delve into people’s dreams, Peter set off down the stairs, eventually ending up at the front door of the building. He stepped out of it and into the snow-covered street.

The first pink streaks of dawn were rising elegantly across the cloudless sky. He smiled at them despite his fear and looked down, finding what he was looking for: clear, fresh bootprints. He followed them.

They went a winding way around back into Peter’s street. Wade was clearly bad at walking in a straight line; the tracks veered wildly from side to side. Peter couldn’t help but notice how small his own feet were in comparison to the enormous prints.

He was almost back at his own building when he realised where Wade must be going.

_ He had remembered. _

Peter felt a wave of relief wash over him. It wasn’t just him. There was something real here.

The tracks stopped abruptly at the bottom of a lamppost just outside Peter’s building. The lamppost, when it was on, cast an orangey glow in Peter’s bedroom. Peter stood very still, staring down the aborted tracks, well aware of what he would see when he raised his head.

The morning was absolutely silent. There wasn’t even the sound of distant traffic. Peter could hear his heart thundering in his ears, hear his own terrified breathing.

He had to do this.

He looked up.

Deadpool was sitting on the top of the lamppost, his face uncovered but the rest of his body clad in the familiar red and black outfit Peter had seen him wear both in his dreams and in the coffee shop. He was looking down at Peter with his head cocked to the side.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Um, good morning,” Peter replied. His hands were balled into nervous fists. “Are you looking for me?”

Wade smiled. It was the most lovely thing Peter had ever seen. “I was worried I was losing my mind. Well, losing it more. I kept seeing your little sleepy face in my dreams, finding drawings of you I’d done when I was half-awake. But you’re real, aren’t you?”

“I think so, yes.”

Wade nodded. He jumped up with surprising agility and slid easily down the pole, landing on his feet softly in front of Peter. Peter looked up at him, biting his lip. He could remember the taste of this man’s kiss, remember the way his fingers felt brushing up against him, but in real life those things hadn’t happened. He wondered if Wade could remember the explicit details of their shared dream.

“I was worried you were some sort of strange enemy,” Wade told him, taking a step closer.

Peter took a step backwards, automatically. “No. I’m just-”

“Peter Parker,” Wade said gently. “A beautiful, weird guy who, for some reason, can enter people’s dreams.”

“Um, I’m not sure about beautiful, but the rest of that is true,” Peter replied, blushing.

Wade reached out tentatively, as though worried Peter would run away or simply disappear. His fingers touched Peter’s cold cheek softly. “I am pretty sure I thought you were beautiful in our last dream,” he murmured.

_ So he did remember. _

“I’m fairly sure you’re in love with me,” Wade said, his hazel eyes burning into Peter’s, pinning him in place. “I remember you saying that you are.”

Peter tried to turn his head away, incredibly embarrassed, but Wade’s gentle fingers become firmer, holding his head in place so that he can’t avoid Wade’s intense stare. “I… I did say that.”

Wade took a step closer, closing the gap between them. “And was it true?”

Peter swallowed, hard. Once he said this, he was never going to be able to take it back. If Wade rejected him now, it was going to hurt. “Yes. For some reason, I have fallen in love with you.”

Wade smiled. It was gentle. His other reached up to cradle Peter’s face, and he exhaled in a relieved fashion. “I love you, too.”

Peter felt as though something very heavy had been lifted from him. He laughed despite himself, aware that a tear had fallen down his cheek, and allowed himself to be pulled into Wade’s arms, their mouths crashing together for the first time in the real world. It was a passionate, firm kiss, filled with longing and confusion and the rising passion of something very, very beautiful. Wade tasted exactly how he did in their dreams, but the kiss also tasted of snow and salt, with both men crying a little by the end of it.

“What now?” Peter breathed when they drew apart, his hands gripping Wade’s shoulders.

“I think we both need a proper night’s sleep,” Wade replied.

“It’s literally morning.”

Wade smiled. “Well, let’s go see what we can come up with in my bed to fill the time until sleep, Peter.”

The morning was brighter now, and several shocked people looked out of their windows to see Deadpool smiling down at a small, skinny man wearing a coat over his pyjamas. Most of them thought that the man looked like he needed a good night’s sleep and a comb. And so, Wade and Peter made the journey Peter had made more than once, walking through the snow, hand-in-hand, back to Wade Wilson’s bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting and supporting this highly melodramatic piece of writing. Much love :)


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